


Slutcliffe

by TokyoDAZE



Series: The Pet Name Incidents [2]
Category: The Beatles
Genre: Against the Window, Anal, BDSM, Blindfolds, Bondage, Gags, Gay, Hamburg Era, M/M, Painting, Public (sorta), S/M, Shameless Smut, Teasing, Watching, dry, rough, sorta noncon but not really, teddy boys
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-23
Updated: 2016-05-23
Packaged: 2018-06-10 04:41:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,934
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6940195
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TokyoDAZE/pseuds/TokyoDAZE
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John has a lot of time on his hands. He also has an easel, a load of twine, a blindfold, a gag, a few paintbrushes, several tubes of paint, and a hungry throbber. Oh, yeah, and Stu. Time to have some fun.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Slutcliffe

He breathed heavily into his gag.

He could hear the footsteps of someone circling him like a shark, and he could feel a gaze burning into his exposed, shining skin.

He couldn’t see, couldn’t move, couldn’t speak. He wasn’t allowed.

Unprompted, he flinched when the warm touch of a hand met his chest. He cried out a little when it slithered around his strung-up body.

“What an _adorable_ little thing you are.” The guitarist sneered knowingly. “Do you like being tortured, Stucakes? You look pleased.”

Stuart whimpered quietly. John could be so sadistic if he wanted to—the rugged, handsome auburnet had taken time out of his night to sneak into Stuart’s attic when Astrid and her mother were out of town, and he managed to catch him off-guard while he was painting. The next thing he knew, Stuart was stripped of his clothing and bound with twine to his own easel—his wrists above his head on the pivot, ankles on either leg, and hips to the crossmember. He had been gagged and blindfolded then, and now he was being humiliated for that guitarist’s pleasure.

He felt two hands cup his cheekbones, and breath that smelled a little bit of birds and beer spoke into his face. “Well? Aren’t you going to say something? I don’t suppose you’re too _weak_ , right?”

His ears burning, Stuart huffed. With his restrained hand, he extends his middle finger, wishing he could glare through his blindfold.

“Oh, you’re mad at me now?” John laughed. “That’s cute.”

“ _Mmmpphh!_ ” He growled, desperately trying to free himself from the predicament he was in. _I swear, once I’m out of here, I’m gonna kick your ass…_

“Oh, Stukie…” John mocked him. “You know struggling is pointless, right? I made sure to tie you up nice and tight. You’re _mine_.”

Stuart suddenly felt something bristly and ticklish stroke his side.

“Do you know what that is, Stukie? It’s a paintbrush—your favorite one, too. I’m going to paint on your body, Stukie. Once I’m done with you, you’ll be your very own work of art.”

Stuart sensed him as he stepped away for a moment. He began to panic and struggle more, not knowing where that sadist would strike him next.

After a long and painful moment, he felt something cool and oily slide down his stomach. He flinched— _paint_. He cried out, voice muffled by the gag.

“Feel that, Stukie? It’s red and vibrant… just like this throbber of yours right here.” With his free hand, John toyed with Stuart’s aching cock, chuckling darkly. Stuart blushed, feeling embarrassed and hurt and aroused all at once.

“Oh, don’t be like that. I’ve barely started.” Quickly, another stroke cursed the poor artist—this time, up his bicep. Stuart tried to pull his arm away out of instinct, but could only squirm helplessly.

“This is so much fun!” John purred. He continued on, teasing Stuart with the brush at his thighs, chest, armpits and throat. Stuart kept struggling and begging him with whimpers to have mercy. The poor thing couldn’t see where he would place the brush next, so every new location would startle him, and he couldn’t brace himself for it.

After many minutes filled with torture, John laughed again and finally took the brush off. “I’m almost out of red paint. I guess you haven’t much of it. What color should I use next?” He reached out and undid the gag.

“J-johnny… p-p-please…” Stuart sniffled, his breaths heavy and wet. “Let me… let me go—”

“That didn’t answer my question.”

“B-blue!” He blurted out. “I-it’s on the shelf b-by the door! P-please untie m—mmph!”

“Thanks, Stukie.” John had already reapplied the gag, forcing it around Stuart’s mouth. “That’s all I needed to know.” The bound artist moaned, despairing as that guitarist went to retrieve the new bottle.

Once he returned, he was back at it. Slick strokes of torment tickled the poor bohemian’s naked body. He clenched his fists, crying out every time the brush teased at his skin.

Stuart felt John kiss his ear mockingly as he dragged the brush across the artist’s cheekbones. “I can’t believe this is what turns you on. Kinky, are you, Stukie?”

“ _M-mm-mph!_ ” Stuart threw his head back, his pleas muffled. The brush caressed his sensitive throat. He frantically thrashed about, but John held his head in place and continued to tantalize him with the brush. _God, god—p-please stop! This is torture!_

“Come on, Stucakes, don’t do that all of a sudden.” John frowned. “Now moan for me.”

Stuart managed to jerk his head to the side in defiance. _No_.

“You’re not going to?”

He shook his head.

“Fine. I guess I’ll just have to force it outta ya.”

 _No, wait!_ Suddenly, the brush was grazing the inside of his thigh—a hotspot for poor, sensitive little Stu. He convulsed, struggling and yelping. His chest heaved with frantic breaths; he let out a loud, long moan.

“There we go. I knew you could do it.” John lifted the brush. Stuart felt him stand there for a while—probably observing his squirming, sputtering work of art. He could only imagine what the auburnet could see: a pathetic, tiny bohemian tied up and drenched in paint, gasping and sputtering like a needy slut. _Slutcliffe!_ He remembered bitterly.

“I think you look blue enough, Stukie. I think silver would be a good addition. What do you think? You’re the artist here, y’know.”

Stuart cried out helplessly. _Oh my god, oh my god, please, I don’t care! Just make it stop! I’ve had enough!_ He whined and struggled, trying to jerk himself free, but he couldn’t. John laughed.

“Are you getting tired? Don’t worry. I promise I’m just going to apply this last color and then I’ll untie you…” John snickered. “... after which I’ll give you a nice, hard fucking against the window. Does that sound good?”

 _You sick bastard!_ Stuart so desperately wanted to scream.

“I’ll take that as a _yes, Johnny!_ Now how about that silver?”

… Stuart paused, then nodded reluctantly. He didn’t care at this point.

After a painfully long moment, the brush returned. Stuart flinched—again, it was touching the inside of his thighs. He shuddered as wet paint rolled down his legs and dripped onto his ankles. A whimper fled his throat.

Once it had finished coating his thighs, the brush again lifted and touched down on his bare chest. He winced and tried, failing, to bite down a moan. The wet bristles moved in a smooth, contoured pattern across his skin, overlapping itself in many places.

“I’m almost done, Stukie. There’s still a spot I didn’t want to touch until now…”

All of a sudden, the brush was resting on the head of Stuart’s erection, teasing him ever so slightly. Stuart gasped sharply. _No. He wouldn’t. He wouldn’t dare touch my—_

The tool moved skillfully down the front of his length until it reached the base. He shuddered and bit into the gag, trying to pull away, but the twine around his hips kept him bound to the crossmember. “ _Mm-mmf!_ ”

“Oh, would you look at that? Your poor cock is covered in paint now. I bet you really wanna get off, huh?”

 _I hate you!_ Stuart sobbed as the brush taunted him. It snaked up and down the length of his prick mockingly, and all he could do about it was squirm and moan. He begged with his noises, trying to get it across to his captor that he had enough, that he had given into his desire.

“Well, I’m done with silver, and a promise’s a promise.” John set the brush down and undid the gag and blindfold. Stuart’s freckled face was flushed and sweating red.

“Y… you i- _idiot_ …” Stuart choked as John untied his wrists, then his hips and ankles. His knees buckled immediately, and he found himself collapsing into John’s chest.

“Woah, Stukie.” The guitarist pushed him off, sending him to his knees. “I don’t want paint on me. Yer’ covered in it.”

“S-sorry…” Stuart looked down at himself. His body was soaked in oily reds, blues, and silvers. The new colors covered every part of him from his toes to his ears, and barely any of his original skin was visible.

“Heh.” John smirked. “Come now.” He grabbed the little artist by the neck and pulled him up. “Now, what did I say about that window?”

Stuart found himself being wrestled to the pane in the front of the room. John bent him over the windowsill with his paint-stained hands, chest, and forehead pressed against the glass, staring out into the streets below. He thanked the heavens that it was nighttime and that there was little chance his lithe body would be seen from outside, where there were few people roaming. Still, he whimpered. “F-fuck you…”

“Now, let’s see,” John smiled and undid his zip, pulling out his cock. He rubbed its head against Stuart’s ass. “I know what I’m going to do. I’m going to fuck you hard and dry. I promise you that by the end of this, you won’t even be able to stand up straight. I fuckin’ promise. Now, Slutcliffe, do you understand?”

He frowned when the bohemian didn’t answer. “Why don’t you repeat what I just said? I want to make sure you know.”

“Fuck if I c-care…” Stuart snarled weakly.

John narrowed his eyes and reached for the artist’s hair. He grabbed a fistful of it and pulled hard. Stuart yowled, writhing in pain. John held him against the glass, staring at him with a vicious gleam in his eyes. “Say it.”

“A-ah, fuck! Y-you’re gonna fuck me hard and dry! B-by the time you’re d-done, I-i won’t even b-be able to sta-and! Aaa-aahhh-hh!”

“And?”

“A-and…” He dropped his voice to a low, almost inaudible whisper. “I-i’m gonna enjoy every minute of i-it…”

“Good boy.” John let go of his hair. He eagerly pushed himself into Stuart’s skinny body, the poor thing crying out when he was all the way in.

“I-it hurts!”

“Don’t worry. You know you’ll get used to the feeling in a minute.”

The guitarist began thrusting into Stuart, each movement being rough and careless. The little artist began to fall apart immediately, gasping and moaning as he was rammed against the windowpane again and again. He curled his small hands against the smudged, blurry glass, scraping his fingertips on the clear surface. “J-johnny!”

“You get better every time I fuck you.” John grunted as his palms clutched his lover’s waist and kept talking as he destroyed Stuart’s paint-coated body with his skill. “So fuckin’ easy. All I have to do is find you after the sun’s down and you’ll just be _lying there_ with your legs spread wide open for me. You little cunt. You like being fucked, don’t you, _Slutcliffe?_ ”

“ _Y-yeah!_ ” Stuart screamed. “I love it, Johnny! P-please fuck me!” His slender legs were beginning to buckle from exhaustion. His limbs trembled, begging for a quick release.

“I can see you slipping. If you collapse, it’s back to the easel for you.”

Stuart whined and did his best to support himself underneath John’s weight, not willing to endure that torture again. Now he was all alive and wild, even though the burning sensation made him wince. The guitarist bucked his hips repeatedly into him with violent charisma, cursing under his breath frequently. He could feel something—something—revving up in his gut.

“J-johnny, wait…!” It was sudden.

He did not wait—he kept thrusting as he growled, “What the fuck is it, _Slutcliffe?_ I said I’d be hard on ya.”

“Th-there’s somebody outside!” Stuart trembled. Indeed, a tad-familiar man who looked rather drunk was stumbling about across the street from the flat and he had already taken wind to John and Stuart’s shenanigans, staring directly into the window where they were fucking. From that distance, Stu couldn’t tell who it was, but it didn’t matter. “He can see us!”

“Oh?” The auburnet drawled with sadistic delight. “Well, why don’tcha give’m a show? Come on then, show yerself off. Brag about the pleasure I’m givin’ you right now.”

“Johnny!” The artist snapped. It would’ve felt like scolding if he wasn’t being fucked up the ass against a window at the moment.

“Do it.”

Stuart could feel a large, cunning hand slither its way to the base of his silver-drenched cock and begin to caress it gently. He craned his blue-silver neck and let out a strangled moan dripping with pain and lust. John smirked—he couldn’t see outside without his glasses on, but he was certain the man was watching intently now.

“Johnny, i-it hurts!” The bohemian threw his head back, strands of shiny hair falling over his eyes. He was beginning to tear up—whether from paint fumes or from the pain of sex, he wasn’t sure.

“And you like that, _Slutcliffe_.” John gritted his teeth, feeling unstoppable as he devoured the bassist’s delicate body. “You like it when it hurts.”

“D-damn you!” He cried out. The drunkard on the streets was beginning to leave, albeit hesitantly, as if he wanted to stay and watch. But eventually, he was gone, leaving the two alone. Tears were beginning to roll down Stuart’s cheeks, mixing with the paint before traversing down his neck. “Oh my g-god!”

“Yeah, you twat. Fuckin’ cry. See what good that does ya.”

It seemed John felt the mood change from vicious to overpowering, and he began to fuck Stuart faster, faster, _faster_. He had already pushed the little runt well past his breaking point, and by the time this was over, he’d be a hunched-over, shuddering pile of paint and cum—the thought set fire to the guitarist’s determination. He dug his nails into Stuart’s back, certain he was close to drawing blood; he could barely hear the bassist’s moans turn into screams over the static in his head.

“J-jo-ohnny-y! P-please!”

John pressed him harder against the window, cursing. _He shouldn’t even have the strength to speak at this point._ He shoved harder, turning Stuart’s pleas into garbled yowls. _Much better._

He eagerly built up his climax, though not too quickly—he wanted to coax Stuart into shooting first, as he always did. It used to be easy, but after the pet name incident, it was as if the artist had been working on his stamina.

Still, it was just Stu. Weak. Even now, the poor thing was dripping already—he would cum if John gave the word.

“J-johnny… I… I-i’m g-gonna-a… ah… ah…!”

The auburnet smirked, relishing the noises that escaped the bohemian. “Go on, then. Cum for me, ya cunt.”

Even before John had finished his sentence, Stuart felt something feverish overtake him—he arched his back and opened his mouth. The pain shot through his shattered, trembling body, and he let out a scream as everything turned to white.

-

_“Stukie! Stukie!”_

Stuart groaned. He felt nauseous and his vision was distorted with blotches of red, blue, and silver light. His head was throbbing violently, and his entire body ached.

He slowly blinked away tears, trying to find his sight. Eventually, he could make out a very blurry John leaning over him. _Oh. It’s you. You shameless bastard._ is what he would have said had he not been too weak to do so.

As of now, Stuart was lying on the floor, facing up, still naked. John was shaking him conscious, and he was dizzy beyond composure, but he could still remember everything.

That was one hell of an orgasm.

“Oh, good. Yer’ up.” The familiar cheeky grin popped up. “I almost thought I had ya knocked out. Man, I’m good! Either that, or yer’ jus’ that weak. I wanna guess both.”

“F-fuck…” He shut his eyes, trying to clear his mind. “J-john… I h-hate you.”

“Yeah, keep sayin’ that.” The guitarist snorted. “Maybe one day, it’ll come true. Not.”

Stuart glowered. He knew his own self looked like a complete wreck, while John could have sex just as rough as they just had it and he could still look decent afterwards. He turned over on his side, wincing at the pain it brought him. With a hiss, he glanced at the window. There were smears of paint and cum on it from him. He curled up into a ball and stared at himself, covered in still-wet paint.

“H-how am I… supposed to w-wash all of this o-off…?”

John shrugged. “Not my problem.”

“W-what?!” He turned over again to glare at the auburnet. “C-come on. You were the one who g-got it on me in the first p-place.”

“Well, whaddya want me to do? Getcha in a tub and scrub you clean?” He giggled like a teenage girl. “Oh, but surely that would lead to naughty things. You don’t want another round after what I just did to you, right?”

Stuart swallowed a stinging retort and touched his own face, moist from tears and paint. “O-of course not. Fine, then. I-i’ll wash meself after this.” He remembered the spectator. “H-hey, what about the man who saw us? What if we run into him and he recognizes us, or he tells everyone in Hamburg that he saw a queer fucking the wits out of another queer in the Kirchherr flat? I-i can’t bloody believe you did this, Lennon.”

John laughed. “Me neither. Let it be a problem for future us.”

“Great.” Stuart growled. “As for now, why don’t you go on and get the fuck out? You’ve had yer fun, and if yer’ not gonna help me clean up, then leave.”

“Fine, fine.” The guitarist held his hands up as if a gun was being pointed at him and got to his feet to leave. “I’ll go. See you tomorrow.”

“Don’t come back.” He snarled playfully.

“Don’t count on it.” John smiled as he left the room, closing the door behind him. Stuart let out a sigh once the troublemaker was gone. He stared at his painted skin, finding himself admiring the work, though still disgusted by the concept, and he scoffed to himself as everything began fading to black.

_What a fuckin’ awful waste of paint._

 

\---

 

     Stuart made it to the club the next night—just barely, anyway, as many of the aches still lingered. He had even managed to clean most of the paint off his body. A hot bath did most of the work, and it wouldn’t seem suspicious if he only had a few flecks of paint scattered here and there, so there was no need to go any further than that. Nobody would’ve suspected a thing, and they played their bone-melting, blood-boiling gig just like they did every night. Frequently, John would toss Stuart this _look_ , and he managed to ignore it for the most part, though it started to get underneath his skin near the end of the night.

Paul was also giving the two of them queer glances. It wasn’t filled with envy or discontent as it used to be—the satisfaction in that had faded long ago. It was rather condescending, but not in a cold way—just a humorous, playful way. Like he knew something they didn’t.

Still, his words were biting when he strutted up to the two at the bar after the set. “You played fuckin’ awful tonight as always, _Stucakes_.”

Stuart sighed, taking a gulp from his stale liquor. He had hoped the pet names would’ve been dropped after that bloody wonderful threesome from which they had been born, but it had been weeks and still they stuck. He should be grateful, he supposed, as it was only Paul and John who made fun of him in that way and nobody else. Not George, not Pete, not anyone, though he wouldn’t mind if Astrid started using them. In any case, he had gone from being Lennon-McCartney’s scapegoat to being their pet, and he didn’t know which was worse.

At least, when he was just their scapegoat, they wouldn’t drag him backstage and fuck him or tie him to an easel and torture him or slam him against a window and fuck him… but being fucked wasn’t all that bad, even though it had its risks. But then there were the pet names, which he didn’t get much out of at all. He hated them, wishing he could’ve prevented their existence somehow.

“Keep sayin’ that,” He turned to face the nancy-boy, the taste of John’s smug retort from the night before still fresh in his mind. “It just might come true.”

“Tch.” He turned to John, who was stamping on a burnt-out cigarette a few feet away. There was only the slightest hint of a knowing gleam in the ted’s eyes. “The nerve this little exi boy’s got nowadays.”

“Stick yer cock down ‘is throat.” John replied calmly. “He’ll shut up.”

“I oughtta do that.” The brunet growled, his glare directed at his bassist. “It’s been a while. Speaking of which, why the hell was he covered in paint when you were fucking him last night?”

Stuart almost spit out his drink.

“Huh? How’d ya know ‘bout that, son?” John narrowed his eyes.

“Uh,” Paul stared right through him. “I _saw?_ ”

“... How?”

“You can’t be serious!” The guitarist rolled his eyes. “I know you saw me! Stukie was staring at me as long as I was there. You had him pressed up against the window where anyone could see you. Shite, you were fucking his brains out! He probably woke up everyone in the district with those screams!”

“Th-that was you?” The bohemian was unsure as to whether he should feel relieved that the spectator turned out to be Paul or worried that the spectator turned out to be Paul.

“Didn’t you recognize me?”

“N-no…” Stu admitted. “It was dark out, and ya know I need glasses…”

“Well, I sure as hell recognized you two. Can’t believe ya fucked him that hard, Lennon.”

“I didn’t _just_ fuck him.” John grinned proudly. “Before that, I tied him to his own easel and painted on his body. You should’ve been there, Macca. The noises he made were so cute— _Please, Johnny, untie me, untie me!_ ” He mewled in mock helplessness. “ _I’ll let you fuck me if you let me go! Oh, Johnny, please, please!_ ”

“I did not _let_ you fuck me!” Stuart snapped, his ears burning red. “You fuckin’ took me by the throat and stuck it up my ass!”

“You wanted it.”

“Did not!”

“Why the ‘ell didn’t you invite me?” Paul tilted his head, changing the subject.

“Ah, weren’t you already busy with some bird?” John waved his hand dismissively. “I was gonna invite you, but… yeah. Anyway, you did come by and see later, so…”

“God damn, Lennon, you know I’d even let go of a blonde skirt if it meant we were gonna go screw with exi boy over ‘ere.”

“Sorry, mate. Then maybe next time.”

Stuart glared. “No thanks. As if being fucked by _one_ lunatic wasn’t enough.”

“Yeah, yeah.” John chuckled. “Macca, I’ll make this up to you. How about this: I’ll arrange a surprise visit to Stukie’s place, and we could tie him up again and have another painting session!”

“N-no way!” The artist recoiled with horror. “I’m not going through that again. Y-you can’t make me. Especially not with Paul—I can’t trust him with my paints.”

“I guess we’ll have to come up with something else, then.” Paul smirked, winking at Stuart.

“Don’t even _think_ about coming near me.” Stuart spat.

“Well, not near you.” John laughed. “More like _inside_ you.”

“You disgusting cunt.”


End file.
